 | Poetry for children |  |
67
Winter Thoughts.
Winter hath hid my flowers. I cannot find
A single violet where so many grew,
And all my garden-beds, so nicely fring'd
With verdant box, are cover'd thick with snow.
He has not left one lingering pink, to please
My little sister.
Sure,—tis very hard
For Winter so to come,—and take away
What was my own, and I had toil'd to keep
Healthful, and free from weeds.
They say he rocks
The wearied flowers to sleep, as some good nurse
Compels the infant to resign its sports,
And go to needful slumber. Well,—I thought
My roses all look'd sleepy,—and I know
When one is tir'd, how very sweet it is,
To shut the eyelids close, and know no more,
Until the wakening of a mother's kiss.
A single violet where so many grew,
And all my garden-beds, so nicely fring'd
With verdant box, are cover'd thick with snow.
He has not left one lingering pink, to please
My little sister.
Sure,—tis very hard
For Winter so to come,—and take away
What was my own, and I had toil'd to keep
Healthful, and free from weeds.
They say he rocks
The wearied flowers to sleep, as some good nurse
Compels the infant to resign its sports,
And go to needful slumber. Well,—I thought
My roses all look'd sleepy,—and I know
When one is tir'd, how very sweet it is,
To shut the eyelids close, and know no more,
Until the wakening of a mother's kiss.
Winter looks stern and hath an angry voice.
I hope he will not harm my tender buds,
That had just put their velvet leaflets forth,
And seem'd so frighten'd. But I know who rules
Harsh Winter, and spreads out the spotless snow,
Like a soft curtain over every herb,
And shrinking plant that it may rest secure,
And undisturb'd. He shields the lowliest shrub
That strikes its lone root at the mountain's base,
With the same gentle and protecting love
As the moss-rose. Yea. He doth care for all,
The ivy, and the aspen, and the moss
Clothing the ancient wall,—who have no friend
To watch them,—and no fragrance to repay.
I hope he will not harm my tender buds,
That had just put their velvet leaflets forth,
And seem'd so frighten'd. But I know who rules
68
Like a soft curtain over every herb,
And shrinking plant that it may rest secure,
And undisturb'd. He shields the lowliest shrub
That strikes its lone root at the mountain's base,
With the same gentle and protecting love
As the moss-rose. Yea. He doth care for all,
The ivy, and the aspen, and the moss
Clothing the ancient wall,—who have no friend
To watch them,—and no fragrance to repay.
Father in Heaven! I thank Thee for the rest
Thou giv'st my weary flowers. Grant them to wake
At Spring's first call and rear their beauteous heads
Rejoicing,—as my baby-brother springs
From his sweet cradle-sleep,—with tiny arms
Outstretch'd,—and eyes like my own violets bright.
Thou giv'st my weary flowers. Grant them to wake
At Spring's first call and rear their beauteous heads
Rejoicing,—as my baby-brother springs
From his sweet cradle-sleep,—with tiny arms
Outstretch'd,—and eyes like my own violets bright.
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